"Hey, wait for me, Masaru!"
A young girl's voice rang across the dirt path, sweet and vibrant like a song in spring. Her long, pink hair danced in the breeze, and her wide, sparkling eyes—pink like blooming sakura petals—were locked onto the boy running ahead.
Masaru turned his head, laughing. His black hair was tousled by the wind, his bright eyes glinting with mischief.
"Come on, Sakura! You'll have to do better than that if you want to keep up!" he teased, slowing just enough to let her catch up.
Their laughter echoed across the open road leading back to the orphanage—a run-down but sturdy building nestled between the hills of a government-controlled district. It wasn't luxurious, but to them, it was home.
As they walked side by side, a heavy voice sliced through the warmth of the moment.
"Hey, brats!"
Three older boys stepped onto the path. They were taller, bulkier, their eyes glinting with cruel delight. Masaru immediately recognized them—local tyrants of the orphanage, known for picking on the younger kids just to feel powerful.
"What do you want?" Masaru asked coldly, stepping in front of Sakura. His voice held no fear, only simmering annoyance.
"Oh my, is that how you talk to your elders?" the biggest of the three mocked. Without warning, he grabbed Masaru by both arms and lifted him off the ground like a ragdoll, laughing.
"Leave him alone, you bully!" Sakura shouted, her tiny fists clenched. Her voice rang out with a fire that defied her small frame.
The bully sneered. "If you say so, princess." And then—he tossed Masaru aside like discarded trash. The boy hit the dirt with a dull thud.
Sakura ran to him—but was intercepted by a slap that cracked through the air.
SLAP!
Her head snapped to the side as she fell, hitting the ground hard. Her scream tore through the silence. Masaru lay there, his breath frozen, his wide eyes watching her delicate body tremble, her cheek already reddening with the handprint of cruelty. How can a fellow human be this cruel, shoyding no restraints to feel drunken in power, that was the cruel reality of the world, the string would always preynon the weak with the only discrimination being strong and weak nothing else.
In that moment, something inside him broke.
Without thinking, without hesitation, Masaru grabbed a heavy stone from the ground. He staggered to his feet and—
CRACK!
The stone collided with the bully's skull. The boy's eyes rolled back as he collapsed, blood spilling onto the dirt in chilling silence.
The other two stood paralyzed. Before they could move, Masaru turned and slammed the stone into the second boy's face, drawing a cry of agony. Blood sprayed as the boy stumbled back.
"YOU LITTLE—!"
The last one lunged and punched Masaru, knocking him flat. Pain exploded in his chest, but he held the stone tightly.
As the boy advanced again, Masaru hurled the stone with all his might—it struck the attacker's leg with a brutal crack. The older boy screamed as his leg gave out beneath him, bones snapping like dry twigs.
Masaru scrambled up and rushed to Sakura. Her eyes were wide with shock, but she was still breathing. He held her trembling hand tightly and whispered, "Come on… let's go."
They fled.
—
Inside the orphanage's infirmary, Masaru gently dabbed the blood from her temple with an old cloth. His hands trembled.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, barely a whisper. His voice quivered as he looked down at her, guilt eating him alive.
Sakura blinked through her tears. "Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault. They were monsters..."
"I couldn't protect you," he said, his voice hollow. "You stood up for me and got hurt. I was supposed to protect you. I'm useless..."
"Stop that!" she cried, grabbing his hands. Her eyes shimmered, tears falling freely. "You did protect me! You fought for me, even when you were scared! That's more than anyone's ever done for me. I'm grateful... Masaru, as long as you're safe, I'm okay."
Her words struck him like lightning—sincere, warm, and full of affection. He blinked away his tears and smiled, despite the sting in his eyes.
"Then I swear..." he said softly, stretching out his pinky. "I'll always be there for you. I'll protect you no matter what."
Sakura linked her pinky with his. Her lips curved into a gentle smile.
"And I'll always stand by your side. Best friends. Forever."
Their bond, forged in fire and blood, became unbreakable.
——–
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~~
"Where are you taking her?! Bring her back!" Masaru screamed, thrashing against the memnon-suit enforcers holding him down. His eyes were wild, burning with desperation.
Sakura was being dragged away by men in black suits, her arms stretched out toward him, eyes streaming with tears.
"I don't want to go!" she screamed, her voice cracking as she fought against the grips restraining her.
Masaru tried to rise, but the suits slammed him to the ground. He was only nine. His body, small and powerless, was no match for full-grown adults.
"MISS HANAME! PLEASE, DO SOMETHING!" he yelled at the matron who stood nearby, her expression unreadable.
She finally spoke, her tone weary. "I'm sorry, Masaru... This is a government facility. With the right paperwork, any child can be adopted. I... I can't stop them."
"She doesn't want to go!" he cried. "You know she doesn't!"
But his words were swallowed by the cruel indifference of the system. The van's doors slammed shut, taking Sakura with them. Her face disappeared behind tinted windows, her cries echoing in Masaru's soul.
"I swear on everything, Sakura..." he whispered hoarsely, tears streaming down his face, "I'll come for you. Even if it's the last thing I do."
—
...
"Sakura!!!"
Masaru jolted awake, breathing hard. His body was drenched in sweat, his sheets tangled. He looked around—he wasn't a child anymore. Just a man haunted by dreams of a promise made long ago.
He pressed his hands against his face, trying to ground himself. The pain never faded. The guilt never dulled.
"Hello," a voice said beside him.
Masaru turned.
She had pink hair. Bright pink eyes. But not his Sakura. The resemblance was uncanny, yet unmistakably different.
"What... are you doing here, Hinata?" he asked softly, composing himself.
"Who knows?"